


A Christmas Without Santa

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Series: Anti-Christmas Zine 2020 [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Lovers, Light Angst, Romance, implied established relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28299183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: When Warlock comes home from school, he's in a foul mood. Through a little sleuthing, Nanny finds out that her young charge has been confronted by an unfortunate truth. And she gets to deal with the aftermath.
Relationships: Nanny Ashtoreth/Brother Francis (Good Omens)
Series: Anti-Christmas Zine 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2072664
Comments: 8
Kudos: 37
Collections: AntiChrist-mas Zine Collection





	A Christmas Without Santa

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the wonderful Anti-Christmas zine 2020 :)

Warlock comes home from school in a foul mood.

He’s in a foul mood because he’s had a foul day.

He stomps up the walk after his chauffeur drops him home, completely bypassing the inflatable snowman, the animatronic skating penguins, the singing elves, and the laughing Santa in his giant snow globe. Nanny watches him from the kitchen window as he scowls at the cheery decorations, blowing by them when he would normally stop a moment and stare in awe. Mrs. Dowling told Nanny Ashtoreth that Warlock had picked out those decorations himself, and that the Santa snow globe had been his particular favorite. Indeed Nanny has seen him sit cross-legged in the snow to stare at it. He’d be there for hours on end if Nanny didn’t scoop him up and make him change into dry clothes.

But now he seems angry at it, and Nanny cannot imagine why.

“Hello, dearest,” she greets him as he marches through the door. “How was your day?”

“Fine,” he grumbles, taking off his backpack and tossing it in a corner. The zipper opens when it lands, a corner of his math book having wedged between the teeth. She hears his bedroom door open, then slam shut. She should take him his afternoon snack - a glass of milk and a plate of chocolate biscuits. But she holds back a moment, eyes fixed on the backpack, its contents spilled over the floor.

Nanny isn’t snooping. She’s _tidying_. There’s a difference. Mrs. Dowling would be cross if she came in and saw Warlock’s things on the ground. And with the day he’s had? He doesn’t need disciplining right now. Nanny doesn’t necessarily object to snooping, especially where the Dowlings are concerned. In her mission for Hell, it’s sort of expected. But she isn’t snooping nonetheless. And while she’s not snooping, she comes across a note.

A note that makes her blood boil and her amber eyes burn red.

She finishes her tidying, then takes the note, clenched in her fist, and heads out the door.

“Brother Francis!” she calls out, picking her way through a once green garden covered in a rare blanket of snow. “Brother Francis! Where the Heaven are you?” She spots his beige coat-covered rotund figure waddling out by the hedges. He’s heaping layers of mulch on the spot where the dahlia tubers are hiding below ground, to keep them warm till the spring thaw. Nanny stamps her foot and turns up her nose. Brother Francis is doing exactly as he should, but he didn’t ask for her advice. He looked it up for himself in one of those gardening books he brought along with him when he was hired.

_Typical._

“Brother Francis!” She waves to get his attention. When he smiles and waves back, she calls out, “May I have a word?”

“For you, my dear? Two.” He lays his shovel against a wheelbarrow filled with composted bark, steam rising from the mound into the crisp, winter air.

“How very gracious.” Her words shake, which, if asked, she’ll blame on the cold when, in fact, she doesn’t feel it a bit. The tremble in her voice comes entirely from watching Brother Francis perform anything that even hints at hard labor. He has the sleeves of his coat rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms not normally visible through his disguise.

Bulging, muscular forearms that belong entirely to the angel hiding underneath.

Seeing them like this raises Nanny’s temperature enough to melt the snow around her into a puddle.

“What’s wrong?” Francis asks, misreading the pinched expression on her face. “Is it Warlock? Is he ill?”

“Here!” She thrusts the note in his hands when she can’t string together a coherent sentence. “I found this in Warlock’s school bag.”

Brother Francis begins to read, but an anxious Nanny doesn’t let him get far. “They called him a baby! And a few other things for believing in Santa Claus! They all signed it, _the little plague rats_!”

“That’s very organized of them considering they’re only eight. Surprisingly neat penmanship, too.” Francis tsks. Children. How can they be so cruel? Who teaches them to behave this way? Where’s the sense in sending Warlock to a fancy, expensive school if this is the caliber of student that attends? “What have you done about this?”

“Nothing yet. But I swear to you, revenge will be _swift_!”

“Nanny, no …”

“Their class has a pet. A rabbit that bit Warlock once so I don’t think he’d be upset if I boiled the blasted thing in oil and left its skin hanging from the blackboard.”

“Nanny, dearest …”

“Oh, I won’t let Warlock see. I’ll take him to the zoo that day, go visit the jackals, the lions, other animals he likes, while we plan the personal take down of _every student who put their name on that blasted note!_ ”

“Nanny! That’s not what I mean! What did you tell Warlock?”

Ashtoreth looks at him and grimaces. “What _do_ I tell him?”

“Isn’t it obvious? You have to tell him the truth.”

“And what’s that? Hmm? That the world is a cruel place where nothing magical ever happens even though both you and I are, in fact, supernatural, and could snap up a jolly fat man in a red suit because we have _powers_!?”

“I understand how you feel, my dear ...”

“Do you!?” she snaps. “Because last I checked, the _gardener_ isn’t expected to take care of Warlock! _I_ am! _I_ feed him his dinner! _I_ help him with his homework! _I_ tuck him in at night! And when it comes down to it, the dirty deed falls on me here, doesn’t it?”

Francis sighs. “You’re right. I’m sorry. You are going to bear the brunt of this. But I’m willing to help in any way I can.”

Francis peeks up at Nanny with apologetic eyes, and she softens. “That’s very kind of you.” She reaches out and gives his arm an indulgent squeeze. “But I have a plan.”

***

Nanny Ashtoreth’s plan is more of a tactic.

She decides there will be no problem if they simply ignore it.

If they don’t talk about it, it’ll go away.

If she can get Warlock caught up in the excitement of Christmas, then maybe he’ll forget the whole sordid affair.

Nanny does everything she can think of to distract Warlock.

They color.

They drink cocoa.

Lots of cocoa.

They finish making Mr. and Mrs. Dowling’s presents.

They bake cookies.

And even though Nanny consistently reminds Warlock that tonight is Christmas Eve with all the enthusiasm she can muster, she knows the poor boy’s heart isn’t into it.

When the time comes to tuck her charge in that night, she caves. “Warlock? Is there something troubling you? You don’t seem at all yourself today.”

Warlock stares at his red tartan comforter, chewing his lower lip thoughtfully, wearing the look of a person preparing to make a choice they know they’ll regret. “Nanny? Is there a Santa Claus?”

“Warlock …” Nanny sits on the edge of his bed and leans in close “… I’m going to be completely honest with you. Because you’re a smart boy, and you deserve no less than the truth.”

Warlock’s breath hitches. “That means no … doesn’t it?”

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “But there is a silver lining to this.”

“Yeah?” Warlock sniffs. “What’s that?”

“Now that you know, you get to carry on the tradition.”

“Of what? Lying to kids?”

“No, my dear. Of being Santa Claus.”

Warlock stares at Nanny with puppy-dog eyes.

The saddest eyes Ashtoreth has ever seen.

“I don’t understand, Nanny.”

“Santa Claus isn’t so much a person. He’s a symbol. He represents everything that’s good about the holiday season. Everything that’s good about humanity, too.”

“B-but how am I supposed to be Santa Claus?” he asks, wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands. “I’m only eight!”

“Every culture has had a Saint Nicholas of sorts - a kindly gentleman who hands out presents to those who deserve them. So when you give a present, what does that make you?”

Warlock stares at her in confusion. But when he catches on, he squeezes his eyelids shut and shakes his head, looking more angry than comforted.

“But why do adults do it? Why do they lie?”

Nanny sighs. She is at an impasse, caught between a rock and a hard place.

Her duty to Hell versus doing what’s right for Warlock.

As a demon, Nanny knows this conversation should go in an entirely different direction. She should be sowing seeds of resentment in the boy so that he grows to distrust and distance himself from his mortal parents. That would be an easy way to reap his soul for the Master, put him on his path to his inevitable destiny.

But Warlock, anti-Christ or not, is a little boy. A sweet, innocent boy … for the time being. And tonight is Christmas Eve. It’s a time of love and joy and family … even if God herself handed her only son over to the masses to be nailed to a cross.

But that’s a story for another holiday.

Nanny can always sow seeds of hatred and resentment on a less family-centric occasion, like bank holidays or Guy Fawkes Day.

“Because you need to believe in something, Warlock. It makes this world we live in tolerable, gives us a reason to wake up in the morning.”

“So … there is no Santa?” Warlock asks with the sad finality that comes with acceptance.

“No, dearest. I’m sorry. There’s only one man in a red suit in your life, I’m afraid.”

“And who’s that?” Warlock asks, looking at Ashtoreth with watery eyes.

“Your father.”

Warlock sniffles. Then his eyes twinkle, his face screwing up with laughter. “You’re so weird!”

“Oh, my little love,” Ashtoreth says, leaning forward to rub their noses together, “you have no idea.”

Footsteps on the roof capture their attention, causing Nanny and Warlock to freeze.

“What was that?” Warlock whispers, lower lip trembling with fear but his eyes bright with hope.

A hope that Nanny is wrong, that there really is a man in a red suit who travels all around the world giving out presents to good girls and boys. And that Warlock, even with his B-minus in math and his propensity to ‘forget’ to make his bed in the morning no matter how many times he’s told, may be among them.

Nanny startles for a second until the golden threads of a familiar holy aura rankles her senses. “ _That_ , my dear, is questionable decision making, I’m afraid.”

The footsteps continue their way across the shingles, heading for the gutters over Warlock’s window while a resounding “Ho, ho, ho!” announces their arrival. Nanny and Warlock sit still, listening as they progress. “Ho, ho, ho! Ho, ho, ho! Ho … ho … ho-no, no, no, no … _aaahhh_!”

Nanny and Warlock’s heads snap towards the window where a bulbous red blur streaks through the drift of falling snow, landing somewhere out of sight below the sill with a painful-sounding thud. Warlock’s eyes go wide with shock while Nanny’s head finds the palms of her hands and buries itself there.

“Nanny? If there’s no Santa, who’s that then?”

“That, my love, is an idiot. But he’s our idiot.” Nanny plants a blood red kiss to the boy’s pale forehead. “Everything will be all right,” she whispers earnestly. “I promise you. Get some sleep. And when you wake …”

“Everything will be different.”

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” she says without thinking, a lump forming in her throat when the words sink in.

“Goodnight, Nanny,” Warlock says, rolling onto his side as Ashtoreth gets up and begins to leave.

“Goodnight, Warlock.” She turns back and catches Warlock staring at the window, smiling like the child he was on Christmas Eve last year.

She holds her breath and prays (for the first time in centuries) that smile lasts.

***

 _“What are you doing!?”_ Nanny whisper-yells as she races through the snow towards a reddish lump buried under a foot-and-a-half of snow.

“I’m stuck,” Francis mumbles, rocking back and forth in an effort to free himself.

“I can see that.” Ashtoreth snaps her fingers, sitting Brother Francis bolt upright.

“Oof! Thank you, my dear,” he says, brushing at his arms. “Big help that.”

“What were you thinking!? I thought we were meant to tell him the truth! That there is no Santa Claus!”

“Well, yes,” Francis says sheepishly, twiddling the thumbs of his thick, fleece mittens. “But I got to thinking - he’s still such a youngin, and believing in Santa is so much fun! The anticipation, presents underneath a tree full to bursting on Christmas Day, the stockings, the _pudding_!” Francis’s eyes twinkle so heartily when he speaks, Nanny wonders if he’s ever imagined what it would be like to be a boy growing up in a human household, experiencing the wonders of Christmas firsthand. “B-but I think the way you handled it was better. You always manage to do what’s best, r-regardless of your job description.”

“I don’t know that I did or not,” Ashtoreth admits. “Either way, I think your little stunt helped buy him another coupla years of _what if_. So huzzah! The magic of Christmas is saved, and we didn’t have to use a single miracle to do it.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Yes,” she says fondly. “It’s a very good thing.”

“Well then,” he says, gleefully patting the snow, “I suspect I should get out of this kit, eh?”

Ashtoreth grins. “Don’t. you. dare!” she demands, putting both hands on his chest and pressing him back into the snow. “I do believe I have a thing for men in red suits.”


End file.
